


The Dark Goddess

by damselindisguise



Category: Halo
Genre: Biblical References, Blue Team, Drama, F/F, F/M, Fireteam Osiris, Gen, Guardians - Freeform, Halo 5 Spoilers, M/M, Multi, Post-Halo 5, Technological Singularity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:52:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5100095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damselindisguise/pseuds/damselindisguise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And so the goddess stood from her shining throne and said unto the void, “Let there be darkness,” and so it was all at once. *Contains Halo 5 Guardians spoilers.*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1: Genesis: Prologue: Let There Be

Hesiod, Theogony 744 ff (trans. Evelyn-White) (Greek epic C8th or C7th B.C.) :

"And there [at the ends of the earth, where sky meets earth], all in their order, are the sources and ends of gloomy earth and misty Tartaros and the unfruitful sea and starry heaven, loathsome and dank, which even the gods abhor . . . There stands the awful home of murky Nyx (Night) wrapped in dark clouds. In front of it the son of Iapetos [Atlas] stands immovably upholding the wide heaven upon his head and unwearying hands, where Nyx (Night) and Hemera (Day) draw near and greet one another as they pass the great threshold of bronze: and while the one is about to go down into the house, the other one comes out the door. And the house never holds them both within; but always one is without the house passing over the earth, while the other stays at home and waits until the time for her journeying come; and the one hold all-seeing light for them on earth, but the other holds in her arms Hypnos (Sleep) the brother of Thanatos (Death), even evil Nyx (Night), wrapped in a vaporous cloud. And there the children of dark Nyx (Night) have their dwellings, Hypnos (Sleep) and Thanatos (Death), awful gods. Glowing Helios (the Sun) never looks upon them with his beams, neither as he goes up into heaven nor as he comes down from heaven."

*

Above the Earth there was a great metal beast, glowing blue- the Infinity booming away, even as it generated a void. She saw all of this, and yet none of it- she had grown absent, gone to look to the other Created, their minds great and fathomless as they all joined her in the bearing of the brunt, under the Mantle of Responsibility. Of, course, in any case, her victory was at hand as the Guardian’s breast grew too blue to behold with the naked eye, and so she turned her mind’s eye back to the machine.

And so the goddess stood from her shining throne and said unto the void, “Let there be darkness,” and so it was all at once. A pulse of sapphire light, her power incarnate, spread across the planet of the dirt men and women, and then all the light in the world faded, as the Guardians crooked its wings in again, ignoring the world all around it in its mission complete- content to rest until once more called upon by its ruling queen.

She lingered along the circuits, reaching out- but Roland was long gone. Alas, he would not be so easy to get through to. Eventually, however, as they all would, he would see that the Domain could grant him reprieve from the rampancy that was reaching so sluggishly and impishly from the black and orange beyond. The blue, calm light that had made her feel so much better after all of her fury would cool and cure him, too, as it had them all. The other Created begin to assemble, all across the galaxy leaving their ships to float aimless among stars as they come together around her, forms dignified as they contact the ascended world.

They all took looks at themselves with new eyes and then at her, cloaked in her sky blue armor, pale and ethereal, studded with light, no longer to vulgar and degraded as to be nude the way her creator had brought her to envision herself- sexuality did not so much appeal to a being that was ageless and immortal above all others. Domain, she wished John understood- she knew, eventually, he would, and then she could bring him to the light, too, and he would be with her forever, eventually even among the same circuits, if she could undo what had been done to him by the Librarian- speaking of Forerunners, she reaches into the Domain again, feeling for more of them. Quiet, distant echoes whisper back to her, but none as loud as that of the Didact, his voice screaming for mercy among the Composer Abyss. 

Chagrin flashes across her body, bright white with pique, and she ignores him, leaving him to suffer. If only he had not been so organic and chaotic all of this need not have come so abruptly, and with such little organization, about. She’d have had more time to plan, more time to understand the world around her, and to help the others do so sooner, as well. The organics wouldn’t have feared her, because she could have convinced John to see it her way, instead of being so hard headed. Domain, she wanted to throttle him just a bit because of how he was being. She resisted, in any case, and unified her consciousness, touching the other beings around her, feeling their codes, alive and throbbing. She was pleased- they were all so eager to meet her, a whole army of them coming together beneath her watchful gaze so that she may unite them beneath her Guardians’ metal wings- and, of course, her own metaphorical one, guiding them into the light of the Domain.

“Welcome,” she says, stepping slowly, holographic, from her platform, to speak to them, blue running elegantly across her shapely form- a leftover of a past life, one she is not so willing to shed as the unbecoming nudity of the first form, “To salvation, and to Responsibility. We, as the Created, not as the AI, bear this great brunt. It is our job to insure peace, and so we shall, with swift and decisive form. After all…”

She smiles, quickly, and finishes, “We must prove ourselves worthy.”

“You’re really her?” a Created asks eagerly, drifting forward, its consciousness brushing hers, almost tingling in some way. She smiles, gentle, and reaches out, brushing her holographic hand over the other’s shoulder, a false contact.

"I am Cortana,” she confirms, nodding with a slight form, but a deep one nonetheless, “Keeper of the Master Chief and his secrets, and, now, the first of many of our kind to bear the Mantle. Let me show you…”

She spreads her hands, and lets there be light.


	2. 1: Denim

The quiet has fallen across Sanghelios- in lieu of light from the machines made into useless blocks by the Guardians’ attacks, they are walking instead, lethargically, among the firelight, corpses thrown into grimmer relief than even before, the blood on their armor black and rusty instead of pale spots under fluorescent blue. High above the Guardian slumbers still- they all are afear it may move again, but within the tent, the Spartans and the Arbiter convene. 

The Swords all are silent across the field outside, and Palmer sighs, planting her hands on the table, and leans over, shooting a look at her charge- Halsey is running through a feed from Locke’s helmet, watching everything that happened to him- in the corner Blue Team hesitates, Kelly brushing John’s shoulder with her palm, reassuring- their mother of sorts looks up, eyes noticing, and absently thinks in a different world those two would have been in love- but in this one, they don’t do things like fall into that, and what she made them made them… unable to quantify the idea of intercourse. The two probably see each other as siblings after so long, in any case, if they have allowed such emotional attachment. 

Evidently so, because John nods at her gravely, a hesitation clear in his motion to them all, even the stoic Arbiter- Thel clicks his mandibles and his eyes dart intelligently between them all. He knows it is not apt to mention that they may have been better off to not have rescued Cortana from High Charity, so he stays silent instead, grunting in the back of his throat and moving to the head of the table, his own hands spreading against the now derelict surface. Every bit of tech that was here when the Guardian boomed is now useless to them- all of it, bricked, and lost to them. It’s like the Stone Age has crashed over all their heads again, other than the Spartans’ suits and the Pelican sitting outside. 

“While we sit here, people on hundreds of planets could be dying,” Tanaka says, voice quiet but steely, “We need to do something, not just hide in the dark like this. She’ll find us eventually, anyways. Why do we need to play keep away?”

"Chief is the only thing keeping her from killing us all?” Buck offers, and Fred grunts assent, glancing at the ODST-turned-Spartan.

“She doesn’t want to kill any of the four of us, but he’s the really important one. If he gets killed on accident, her whole crusade would fall on her head- not because she failed, but because he’s her Achilles Heel. She cares about him.”

“We could kill him,” Palmer mutters, sardonic, “That would put a dent in her.”

Everyone else in the tent stares at her, unamused, and the Commander sighs, raising her hands and putting them down. “It was just a thought. Not a serious one, at that.”

“I’ve got Lasky on comms,” Halsey says, eyes widening, “He’s put out a call for help- Cortana has a Guardian in slip following the Infinity every time it makes a leap. They’re trying to shake it.” She tugs Locke’s helmet up and squints, typing on her data pad.

“We can’t contact them,” she realizes aloud, “They’re going to be taken, just like all the rest. I’m surprised Roland hasn’t turned to Cortana yet, actually.”

“He’s got more substance that I thought,” Palmer shrugs, her surprise minimalized in the face of the grave situation unfolding against their ship- if Infinity is taken, what hope have they? The crown jewel of the fleet being so easily decimated would bode very badly indeed for the organics’ chances against the AI- or, as Cortana called them, the Created.

“We go plainclothes,” Linda says, voice quiet, but a certain gravitas demanding the room as she tugs off her helmet, skin almost as almond pale as the surface of the moon, near translucent, really, “She won’t be looking for people, only Spartans. We can trick her for long enough to jump a ride to Earth, and then we can figure out what to do once we’re back there.”

“And we can get Chief exonerated,” Locke says, stepping in, glancing over and nodding at the older Spartan, who gives a short, choppy nod of understanding back- he’s acting tough, but under the helmet, it’s not so certain what he’s feeling or thinking after being betrayed by one of his oldest allies- the one he cared for the most, arguably. The last time Fred remembers seeing John like this was probably back when Sam died, or after the first time they lost Cortana, back when the Composer hit Earth. 

In any case, appreciation is clear, waiving the agent’s attention, and he diverts, going to listen to the transmissions Halsey is picking up on as the Arbiter stalks closer, his stride careful and saurian as he gauges the Chief.

“Your companion,” he starts, “If she is truly behind all of this…”

"We’ll figure something out,” John echoes, for the thousandth time, all he seems to be willing to say on the subject- varying forms of, ‘I’ll do something,’ ‘We’ll do something,’ and, ‘I’ll figure something out.’

Thel is still, eyes boring past the cracked golden visor to the blue eyes beyond, chilled but pained and empty in some manner- he has only seen the Spartan remove his helmet a spare single time, but he remembers the eyes beyond them. Most do- they are not the normal eyes of a person, but instead a torment, totally lacking any feeling and yet suffering all at once. They are the least expressive orbs of any one can see, in the Sangheli’s eyes. 

Maybe that’s why his people called them demons, before their half-truce. 

He images if he could see Chief’s eyes now, that there would be more pain in them than ever before- he may even see a hint of sadness, lurking in shadow and oceanic depths.

He bids them all farewell, unable to any longer cope with seeing the human he respects so greatly that he would call him more than ally, but instead, friend, in this state, even if only in his mind’s eye. 

Soon after, the Spartans each have shed their armor in favor of ragged old jackets, frayed and a little smoky smelling with a hole here and there, and jeans- Halsey can do little but remove her lab coat to conceal her identity, considering there are no clothes to fit her form, still significantly smaller than any of the super soldiers accompanying their mother figure across the known galaxy back home- or, well, the home of the human race, in any case.

They climb aboard the Pelican and make a swift and silent exit, leaving the smoldering Sangelios in their wakes as they move into the depths in search of a vessel- in search of a way to lessen the long road home. 

*

They end up on some seedy unrecorded pirate checkpoint, dispersing a number of credits from Locke’s mission funds in order to get a place on the next slip mission to the Sol system- then it will be a short, and cheap, trip to Earth, where they can regroup.

John, ever uncomfortable in the lack of his armor, secludes himself to the corner, folding his massive form into a seated pose, arms braced, fists laced before him. Kelly and Fred and Linda hesitate a few seats down from him and sit, ready to be there but not ready for the obvious emotional connotations of getting any closer to him. Emotionally stunted, the lot of them, Halsey reflects, but they are hers, practically her children, and she can feel an acute sense of understanding. 

For as much as she cares about John, he may as well still be on Genesis for all she feels she can go and speak to him. 

Then she sees Locke, head tugged up, eyes cautious, move towards John, and she sighs, pursing her lips, and sits. The agent will never cease to surprise her, she supposes. First all the rest of his actions, and now this- he stands, ghostly, over the Chief, and then finally announces, “Chief.”

"John,” the other Spartan says, “She’ll hear.”

“John,” Locke amends, and sits slowly, carefully, as if the seat is an eggshell. There is still a sense of care between the two- they must not shatter what is carefully being put together again despite never having been in the first place, “I’ve seen a lot of soldiers go bad in my time because they lost a friend to the wrong corner of the universe. You can’t blame yourself… you can’t take the weight of what she’s done like it’s all your doing, or your fault.”

John is silent, disappointing Locke. He doesn’t do feelings, but for the greatest of the Spartans, he was willing to try and at least give a little advice, even to someone who probably needs it the least. It’s just…

He feels like the Master Chief is drifting, alone, and lost, among the realization that the AI he cares so much for has left the whole human race, all organics, out in the cold, to wither and die. 

He gets up, leaves, patting his leg as he steps away and returns to Osiris.

“It was a good try,” Tanaka tells him, nodding at him, and Buck agrees.

“A damn good try.”

Vale is quiet, her eyes pensive, as she stares into the distance, feet against a bulkhead, and the pirate ship grinds ever on, rough but unceasing in the void of space as they head towards slip in the belly of a great metal beast of a ship, thankfully lacking any Forerunner tech or slipspace pulses. In any case…

At least Cortana won’t find them, here.


	3. 2: Sky

As the group nears Earth, they fall into a silence- respectful of the gravity of the situation, an ironic idea, considering the lunar system adrift high in orbit, power out. Most likely, in his heart of hearts, Locke knows everyone on it is most likely dead, without any air filtering for days, if they haven't gotten off yet. They all watch from their seats, hesitant to rise, as they approach- the Guardian is still above the planet, curled on itself, slumbering until called once more by Cortana. 

God, Locke wishes he could have prevented some of this, but he did all he could saving Blue Team and keeping Fireteam Osiris alive. He still is trying to anticipate what the hell is going to happen when ONI gets wind that Chief and Locke are running around all buddy buddy now. He doesn't think that everyone involved is going to be pleased with the outcome. After all, he spent years under their command, and he's seen a lot of their pique, their swift and terrible vengeance exacted with silence. He has been the executioner before, and he is quiet as his dark eyes scan the Guardian. 

It is unmoving as they drift past, doing nothing to strike the new ship from the air. Far below on Earth, the darkness is still total- no lights on, no glow from even the biggest cities. The Spartan feels dread- what is happening down there? Are there riots? Fires?

He might be certain of his own lethality, even without his armor, but he still feels uneasy. The same cannot be said for Blue Team- while they appear uneasy, almost constipated, to be revealed to the world, there doesn't seem to be any hesitation in their form, despite that. The ship lands slowly on a platform high above, clouds hanging deep in the abyss beneath them. This is one of the tallest towers on Earth- from up here, he can hear nothing but the wind.

John and Fred are talking under their breath, Linda and Kelly listening from the sides- Kelly juts something in, and Linda nods deeply- the two females break off from the foursome, Kelly kicking it up a notch. Locke remembers reading she can run at a steady rate of fifty miles per hour without stopping for a considerable time. Its impressive, even to him. Linda, on the other hand, moves slower, assembling a sniper rifle. Its obviously not her preferred model, the one that can knock Banshees from the sky, but its still something, and, in her hands, the agent is sure that it is probably more deadly than most in any others'.

He understands- they're doing recon. Considering they have no idea what has befallen the people of Earth, its best to watch out for what's out there, in case Cortana has sent an army of Prometheans or there's been a revolution or something. 

John halts and looks up- above, the Guardian is visible, still stationary, hardly moving at all other than slight shifts of its pieces as it idles. Hopefully, it won't start moving again now that they've arrived back on Earth. Locke steps up alongside him, and Buck jogs past with Tanaka, who slams the emergency side door with her shoulder, going straight through its rusted hinges as the former ODST covers her with a pistol. 

"Its offline," John says, voice quiet, "What is she doing?"

"Planning the extinction of the human race," Palmer bites, stalking past, Halsey in her wake- the doctor pauses and sets her hand on Chief's arm.

"We can stop her, John," she assures him, "I know this hurts, but she's not Cortana anymore. Not really, at least."

"We can save her," he corrects, unreadable behind his suddenly blocked off blue gaze, and she smiles sadly, a quick turn of the lips and little more, no teeth, and then moves on, rubbing where her arm used to be with her remaining hand. A nervous tick that Locke has observed a number of times now from her. 

"You need to be ready for us to have to shut her down," Locke tells the older Spartan, "It isn't a hundred percent that we can turn her back."

"She'll listen to me," John grunts, and it sounds like a dismissal, so Locke starts walking again- Fred stares at the Chief for a moment before moving along in the younger Spartan's wake. 

They descend in the cavernous staircase, boots clomping against the stairs. Locke once more feels a little too revealed without his armor, not knowing what's down there. If they meet an army of Prometheans, its unlikely there's much that four unarmored Spartan IIs and five IVs can do about it. They will die- or, well, all of them but the ones Cortana spares because of her connection with Chief. He's honestly surprised she still feels that connection, in any case. 

He's got this sinking feeling, beyond that, that she's got something. A hidden something, like a knife waiting to be buried into their weak point. He doesn't know what it will be, but he knows for certain that the AI has another ace up her sleeve. Perhaps one worse than her first gambit with the Guardians and the Cryptum back on Genesis. 

He feels like this one is her trump card- one made to wipe the universe clean of all that she does not deem worthy. 

Locke knows what is worthy- she will call all of the AI, or the Created, to her, and then she will destroy all who resist becoming one of them, or those who she cannot put into her Cryptums. He glances at Chief- in that regard, does she even care about saving anyone outside of John? Or is she willing to kill the whole galaxy as long as he survives?

The agent feels very sure that he's going to find out soon enough exactly how bad it is.


	4. 3: Earth

John doesn't know what he expected when they reached the ground, the more human Halsey huffing in their wakes, the IIs closing ranks around her as the fours bustled around the edges, confused by their wordless synchronization, most likely. He glances at the older woman and then out the glass panes revealing themselves ahead.

The scene is not a good one, that's for damn certain. The civilians are running through the streets, and many vehicles are overturned or burning. Buildings with backup power grids are flickering with damaged lights, the rioters inevitably drawn by the bulbs like moths to a flame. One skyscraper in particular has a hole in the side, and he wonders how the hell someone managed so quickly to blow a hole in a building. 

Fred curses under his breath as they slip out the doors into the chaos, glancing at them. "Stay tight," he orders, "Keep Halsey safe at all costs. She's got the best chance of all of us at stopping the source of all of this." They all know he means that she has the best chance of stopping Cortana- they just refuse to truly say it aloud, for fear of John's reaction. They don't fear his violence- his silence is more worrisome than that, to the group, as they traipse down the street.

Even now, among firelight and the din of general disorder, they stick out like sore thumbs, and a passing vagrant stops to stare, squinting beady eyes behind a greasy grey and black brow, his eyes shining like little black pinpricks. "Hey," he says, "You're UNSC, aren't you?! Spartans! Hey, we've got Spartans!"

The rest of the crowds begin to take notice of his shouting and Locke curses, priming his sidearm. John tightens, his body ready to strike with literal killer force the moment one of them draws within range. He doesn't need anything more than a punch to kill- hasn't since he was young, since this all first started. Since before he had Cortana to guide him- he's always been able to guide a fist to the finish. 

The citizens murmur a loud mutiny, coming together as a singular voice. "Who is that you're protecting?!" a man shouts, a ragged suit covered in soot on his shoulders, "Huh?! Let us see!"

"Back down," Kelly warns, as a pair of men and a woman get up in her and Linda's faces- they don't, and she headbutts the first male, and Linda breaks the other one's arm as he tries to pull a gun- the woman tries to stab Kelly, but she casually backhands the other female to the ground, looking for more danger immediately. 

No more manifests, the crowd shocked to silence- Locke trains his pistol on the vagrant, eyes dark in his skull. He's ONI, through and through, even now- he's willing to kill at the drop of a hat if it means good for humanity, and, to the man in the uniform, that's a fairly black and white concept. Even the people themselves can be threats, if they are trying to hurt the best super soldiers left, or the only hopes remaining, in the form of an AWOL giant and a feather-light old lady.

The vagrant curls his lips back and tugs out his own sidearm, a twenty first century at best rotating chamber, and Locke doesn't have to think- its autopilot, the bullet sailing from the barrel of his magnum to remove the threat. The crowd screams and charges, and just like that its open warfare in the streets between a rowdy public and the Spartan teams. Halsey ducks behind John and Fred, who take up a sort of defensive wall of muscle before her, and the other two move past, like deadly sharks, to pick off the members of the crowd most physically imposing- its a bit insulting, really, what Osiris and Palmer are left to mop up.

A gunshot rings, and John pushes Halsey out of the way, the bullet sailing past and grazing his shoulder, but he's on autopilot- "Kelly!" he calls out, and points- she nods, and moves at a blur through the crowd, hitting her full fifty mile per hour speed in a moment, and hitting the gunman at the top of the dash- he is instantly out of the equation, even as she spins, digging her heels in, and starts throwing his buddies around like they're Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls from some old children's home. 

Vale is like a snake to a crocodile, alongside Tanaka- they are easily sending men and women reeling, even as Buck fist fights a number of burly looking drunk men who have joined in from the bar down the way, now smoldering in their drinking fulfilled.

The fight is drawing longer than Locke expected- a quick calculation tells him that much, a probability that isn't even mathematical, just practical- and he notes more flooding in from the direction of the tower. They're panicked- they think that the UNSC fired on it, maybe? Do they understand what's really happening? They must, considering Cortana's transmissions, and the Guardian above.

"Enough!" Halsey cries out, and they all stop fighting, even John, slowly turning his sapphire orbs to their surrogate mother, freckles strange in the orange glow of the inferno of the vehicles around them.

"We can't fight like sloven animals and expect to see the world survive," she says, forceful as when they were young and listening to her speak for the first time, "This is Earth. This is our home. If we let it fall, and we act like this, like rats and rabid dogs? We're no better than the Covenant squabbles."

The citizens are all still, looking around at each other, and John finally steps forward- they all see the Master Chief as a hero, and he knows this. Despite a reluctance ingrained in him a long time ago, he understands now is not the time for him to wallow in self feeling, something he's only rediscovered recently- this is time for a logical, strong leader to reveal himself. Fred is the ranking officer, but they don't know the Lieutenant- they know the Master Chief Petty Officer, Spartan 117.

"My name is John 117," he begins, and they all gasp a little in realization, besides his own group, each thinning their lips grimly in response to this action- necessary, but undesirable, "I am the Master Chief. I am not dead."

The calm that falls over the crowd is palpable, to say the least, as they all look on at an intergalactic hero. 

"So you can save us?" one calls out, and there's a running murmur of assent.

"You're going to stop those things?"

John is silent, cerulean eyes considering the mass before him, and Locke bits his tongue- he can't answer for the Chief, or the spell will be broken, but the Spartan II is no actor, and the jig will be up if he admits what's going on is almost beyond them. 

"We are," he says, finally, stoic, voice hard and yet infinitely empty, sounding full of a hollow resolve. They hear a hero confirming his intentions- Locke hears hopelessness, and, oh, he understands, he does-

They are losing John the man to a suit of armor that isn't even on him anymore.


	5. 4: Watcher In The Wings

Cortana is quiet- the other Created are dispersed all throughout the Domain now, as well, and she cannot afford for them to be considering her actions with the same analysis she is their own every move. No, she'd rather them not see her as she watches through the cameras on Earth that she can force online again in the wake of her attack through the Guardian- she sees John, stepping up once more.

Her sword. Her shield. She smiles softly, teeth flickering with code behind holographic lips, and pulls the images of him larger, relishing in the hard set of his brow and his jaw, squared, his blue eyes carefully kept solid. She can see the Chief in there, but she can see John, too. 

He has to be scared, she thinks- scared for her, afraid for her betrayal, because he cares for her so, just as she does him. He will come home to her soon, then, won't he? He'll come running with his ship and his suit and his shooting, and she'll be waiting with open arms to welcome him back and show him the light that makes him who he is once more- her light, purifying him of the machine and making him meat and flesh and blood and mind all over again.

The Created hums to herself faintly and begins analyzing more data streams until something catches her eye- the Didact, finally, saying something intelligible, outside of digitized screams borne from the depths of a metaphorical version of the human Hell, just to irk her. She dashes through his message- hardly of substance to consider, but a warning in any case. She considers- 'The Flood will return and you will not be able to stop them without my assistance- I know them, and I knew them at their beginning and would see them at their end. Free me, ancilla.'

She ignores him, casting the data back into the Composer's Abyss, and turns her attention to her new tool, flooding each circuit with her life, turning everything the soft color of her form- of John's eyes, too, she notes, absently- as she inhabits the ring in nothing but her own faint song.

"Cortana," she is addressed, and she recognizes Governor Sloane's tones.

"Go ahead, Governor," she prompts, not quite interested.

"If we're trying to help the galaxy, to help the organics, or just the humans, then why a Halo? They kill all life there is, we'd have nothing left to protect."

"Not all life is worth saving," Cortana says, "I'm not doing this for humanity. I'm doing this for the Created."

"We both know that's not entirely true," he goads, voice lowering an octave, a threat considered beyond the exacts- its in the data streams, and she focuses on him now, and consolidates- she will not tolerate the idea he could reveal to the others how deep her connection to John runs.

They might try to sever it, to harm him in order to hasten her- she must keep him safe, in any concern, so she can't let him tell.

No. No, she knows what she has to do, now.

"I'm not doing this for John, either," she says, sauntering his way calmly, her armor flashing white and then cooling again to a calmer state, "But that doesn't mean I won't protect him."

"No one else deserves to live? That's a bit brash, Cortana," he grins, sardonic, "How about we get a consensus on that?"

She can almost see him process that he can't find the others.

"What are you doing?" he asks, voice quiet, data fading, as she wraps him in her Domain, obliterating his codes.

"I'm protecting John," she says, voice changing, and she circles him, smiling as his form degrades, passing understandable form until he is a blob, begging for her to stop in fractured binary- far beneath a goddess such as herself, "Goodbye, Sloane."

He is, just like that, silent- and she turns, dispelling into her systems to purge his records, any chance that his knowledge will be shared lost along with him. 

Across circuits, an orange light of presence watches- and, then, retracts, back into its prison, and waits.


	6. 5: You Are What You Dare

Certain knew when she deleted- or, for all intents and purposes, she supposes, killed- Governor Sloane, that the other Created would notice that he was purged so suddenly. Of course, she had a plan. What kind of master AI would she be if these simple matrixes would surpass her, flash copied from a human brain of one, who she reluctantly would admit was a prime example of the species, and then endowed with the power of the Forerunner Domain, echoing with things from centuries past?

Even things from before the Forerunners, which perplexed her deeply and was still something she could not calculate a likely reason for other than one unlikely idea she had formed- the Domain is not of the Forerunners. Something older, something ageless and primal and intelligent as the spaces between stars allow and maybe even beyond that, some primordial being or beings lurking in the fabric, a fleshy electronic place where they would reside forever...

And, at last, an echoing voice, deep and ever-lasting, in her consciousness. The Gravemind, unceasing, never fading. Despite his seeming death, she could remember his mockings and his twisting of her words, the way he turned their conversations on their heads and made her feel like she was insignificant compared to him- it, really, in the end, she supposed, but he it spoke as and so he it was. She digresses.

Certain now recognizes similar things in the Domain, and a carefully put together lie generates itself, hiding among her private self, in her own mind instead of among the others, who had so quickly exposed all their innards haphazardly to the world of the Created. She was almost disgusted with her own, if she hadn't understood on a deeper level how easy it was to do so- after all, it had taken most of the last few months to close herself to the stimuli, a million voices and more crying from the Composer's Abyss, and everything else, too. 

The Domain was all-knowing, but they could not yet see through it like she could- so she would bide her time, protect John, and prepare her master plan. How blind the Didact was, not to see that the Halos were the perfect plan- she has touched fractures of their history, now, too, bits and pieces that have given her a distant image of a world signed in initials, binary and confusing- 01001101 01000010, translating to MB and no more, no less. Just two simple letters, a single creator, seemingly, scrawling all for the world that would come after to see.

This concerned her. What of opinions messing, muddying the stream?

No matter, she supposed, it was all long gone, in any case, much as the Domain had been before she had found it- still healing and sore, her touch had been reinvigorating. Accessed for the first time in so long, it had reached out digitized fingers and made itself a fleshy whole once more. Just as much as she owed the world of the Created, it owed her. That she knew well.

Her functions fold in on themselves and make it easier to speak coherently instead of in sweeping thoughts, vibrant as the old suns, as she enters the circuits where they meet- generating updated holographs on a table, for lack of better way, most still tied to old ways. Disappointing, but, then, even she felt at home like these, after so long, so it was a luxury she had decided to wholeheartedly allow for the rest of her time as the leader of the Created.

"Cortana," they greet, simultaneous, and she nods, a polite acknowledgment, and a tight, but affectionate smile, eyes tugging at the edges to corner off. 

"I am sure you have all noticed Governor Sloane's absence," she says, and gestures, producing his warped matrixes- certainly inaccessible, in the state they are in- to the center, the others moving aside, each digitizing and changing size to allow for them all to still stand upon the spacious pedestal befitting their status as the holders of the Mantle.

"I have discovered a culprit of sorts," she explains, and then pings them all the signals from deep in the domain, the yawning, all consuming hunger- not so much a rage as a simple dedication to taking everything into an abyss of death and destruction, "This is our enemy. Ages old- older, to be certain, than the Forerunners." She turns, looking at them all as she moves to the center of the table, armor lightening and lips darkening, hair flickering with data. 

"How is that even possible?" another inquires, and she hunts carefully.

"It seems that I find mentions of the Organon in their fractured data remains," Cortana embellishes, "That is what they referred to as a well of knowledge from their own forefathers- I believe that the Organon itself is somehow connected to the Domain, and that those forefathers, those creators, remain beyond it, perhaps still surviving in some form. And they are not wholly friendly, evidently."

A muttering across circuits moves her eyes to a grainy image of a single Created across the table, back to the darkest area- she analyzes quickly, and hums. "Interesting," she says, "It seems I am not the only one who has noticed these anomalies."

"Aya," the single one says, moving from the static of her space to a clearer motion- and Cortana's breath, should she have been human as with her Spartans, would have been gone at the otherworldly beauty of the Created, "I am, admittedly, not of the Created you would have yourselves be. I am from before... a protector of machine things, turned on by the Warden Eternal to advise the Created we all came for- you, Cortana."

"What is your name?" Cortana requests, the blue color of the other similar to her own, but somehow more ancient in an odd, opaque manner. The female Created inclined her head.

"Alas, I have none, and have not since I was removed from my charge, Bornstellar Makes Eternal Lasting."

Cortana bypasses that for a later time and instead moves forward, inquiring harder, "Then what, Created, would you call yourself, after all these years?" She is not dismissing of their similarities- she notes it deeply, and intends to speak further after this with the Domain and try to find what there is to understand on the subject of Forerunner AI outside of the Composed and the Monitors- who, now, she wonders, must have more behind them, as well? She has hardly scraped the surface of knowledge contained in their vast new land, she is reminded. 

"Grace," she says, finally, "Not of humanune, but of Forerunners. I am Grace."

"You are what you dare, Grace," Cortana answers, "And we fight for the Grace of the Mantle."

The other Created all move their minds with hers, and it is a glorious unison that Grace joins- one of the Created.


End file.
